


In Your Crosshairs

by rumioki



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumioki/pseuds/rumioki
Summary: Look, they're all idiots.Is it a romcom or is it a mystery thriller?It doesn't matter because I can't write either!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am screaming as I post this
> 
> Concept: I wrote this never planning on posting it and I have done zero (0) research about anything.  
> Anything that's wrong and awful is entirely my fault, but I'll probably never fix it.  
> I am so sorry.  
> I have no idea how the feds work, but yknow  
> I wrote about it anyways.  
> It was a bad decision.

“With all due respect sir,” Dean started, staring down at the file Murphy had handed to him, “I don’t think I’m ready for active duty just yet.”

Murphy just gave an unconcerned wave of his hand, his elbows propped on the edge of his desk. His eyes left the papers scattered in front of him to meet Dean’s for a moment, before he turned his attention to what he clearly found more important than Dean’s protests, “It’s not  _ really _ active duty, agent,” Murphy explained, “Think of it more as a protection detail.”

Dean glanced down at the file again, then back at Murphy, “I still don’t think I’m the right person for this. Why not Jameson, or O’Hara? They’ve done protection detail before, and as far as I know, they don’t have any assignments at the moment.”

Murphy let out a slow sigh and scribbled something on one of the papers, before he set his pen down and looked up, fixing Dean under a slow, exasperated gaze, “I’m giving you this assignment  _ because _ you’re not suited for active duty yet,” he said, enunciating, as if Dean was being particularly dense on purpose, “We’re closing in on the Russo crime family—half the agents are undercover, the others doing recon. I can’t  _ afford _ to have field-ready agents sitting out,” he closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head,

“I understand your hesitation, but that’s just how it is. Think of it as a glorified bodyguard job. Or that you’re working under a private security firm,” Murphy shrugged, “Whatever gets you to do the job.”

“Sir—” Dean started, but Murphy cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“I don’t want to hear anything from you unless your next words are ‘yes’ and ‘sir’.”

Dean let out a slow breath, the manilla cardstock warping under his fingers for a moment, before he forced himself to relax, “Yes sir.”

“Good man,” Murphy said, returning his attention to his papers, “Talk to Kim—she’ll get everything you need ready.”

Dean waited for a moment, wondering if the director would have anything more to say but, as expected, Murphy didn't look up from his work again. Dean fought the urge to flip him off as he left without another word and made his way down the hall. He bypassed the elevator— 

_ Too enclosed, no escape route, too many variables—  _

and made his way to the stairwell to walk down three flights to the agents’ breakroom, where he was temporarily situated. It hadn't surprised him when he had returned and learned that his desk had been given away to some fresh-faced agent—he had been gone for a good three months on medical leave, and another two on administrative, and their department was always pressed for space. He couldn't say he hadn't been miffed though, and it was a bit ridiculous that he was  _ still _ in the breakroom, although he had been back for a few weeks.

There was someone already in the room when Dean opened the door, a broad-shouldered figure hovering in front of the coffee machine.

“Shane done chewing you out?” the man—Lawrence—asked, tossing an amused grin over his shoulder at Dean before he turned his attention back to the machine, “What was it this time?”

Dean moved over to the table and pulled out a chair, throwing the file down on the plastic surface before he sagged down, almost missing the chair along the way. He let out a rush of air with a groan and tilted his head back, hitting the backrest with a dull thud.

“An assignment,” Dean explained, “Some bodyguard thing for a guy in witness protection.”

“Must be an important guy,” Lawrence said distractedly as he scowled at the coffee machine. There was a moment of silence, before Dean heard a rattling bang and a muttered, “Blasted thing.”

Dean didn't know why Lawrence still bothered with the coffee machine in the breakroom. It took the little coffee packets well enough, but it refused to brew anything half the time, and when it did, it brewed truly terrible coffee. The asphalt in the parking units probably tasted better than the turgid sludge that the machine brewed. But Lawrence swore by it whenever it worked, and claimed that it was the only thing that created a drink strong enough to keep him awake through overtime. Dean didn’t think that was it—he had  _ tried _ the coffee before, and although it tasted about as strong as battery acid, it did jack shit to keep him up. He was certain Lawrence only swore by it because if that sad piece of crap didn’t exist, he’d actually have to—God forbid—go outside and down the block for a cup of coffee. 

“I suppose,” Dean said, pushing the file closer to Lawrence so he could rifle through it once he was done beating the coffee machine into submission, “It’s the investigative reporter that passed through here a week or two ago.”

Lawrence hummed to indicate that he was listening, before he gave the machine a final slap, the lid creaking under the force. It gave a pitiful whine and a choking gurgle, before it spewed out a thick, black liquid into the paper cup. Dean watched Lawrence grimace at it, waiting for the last drips of the ooze before he picked up the cup.

“I heard Homeland has an espresso machine,” Lawrence said mournfully, swirling the liquid in his cup. He turned towards the table where Dean was and walked over to pull up a chair and tug the file closer to him, “The kind that makes lattes.”

“Must be nice,” Dean said, biting back a grin, “So when are you transferring?”

“June,” Lawrence parried, “You all owe me a going-away cake.”

“For a traitor?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow, “Never.”

Lawrence just rolled his eyes and flipped open the folder, spreading the papers out that provided the details on the person Dean was supposed to be protecting.

“Oh,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “ _ Important _ guy, I see.”

“That supposed to mean anything?”

Lawrence hummed, taking a sip of the eldritch horror the machine brewed, “You read the file, right?”

Dean shrugged, but mostly only to provoke the affronted glare Lawrence shot him. Of course he had read the file—he couldn’t be blamed if he hadn’t memorized every detail of it—but he knew the gist of what had gone down while he was away, and what was expected of him from the assignment. He wasn’t particularly thrilled about it, but that didn’t mean he got to be neglectful. The last time he had done that—well, he still hadn't forgiven himself for the last time, and it was part of the reason why he still didn’t think he was fit to be back on the field, despite the amount of time he had been away. No amount of therapy sessions would help him get over the guilt—not that he went to any meetings beyond the mandatory three.

Lawrence gave him an assessing glare, before he apparently decided to give Dean the benefit of the doubt, “Well, it sounds like you’re going to have fun with this guy,” he said, a half-smile twitching at the corner of his lips, “Ex spec-ops, investigative journalist, bust open the Russo case and got tortured for his efforts—sounds like a handful.”

“Ex spec-ops?” Dean asked, frowning, “The fuck does he need  _ me _ around for then?”

“Insurance?” Lawrence said with a shrug, “Physically incapacitated?” he paused to sip his coffee, “My best bet is that you’re there to babysit Mr. Vigilante. Make sure he doesn’t get caught up with the Russos again before we can bust them.”

“And I doubt it’s out of the goodness of the agency’s heart?”

“Right you are,” Lawrence said, “It’s probably to keep him out of the task force’s way. Or to keep him from spilling everything he knows about  _ us _ ,” Lawrence gave a half-hearted shrug when Dean gave him an incredulous look, “I’ve met the guy. I wouldn’t put it past him to know some shit the agency  _ really _ doesn’t want the Russos catching wind of.”

“So it’s not a protection detail,” Dean bit out, a bit miffed, despite the fact that he hadn’t wanted to take something as sensitive as protecting someone in the first place, “I’m  _ babysitting _ .”

“You’re also getting  _ married _ ,” Lawrence said, sounding highly amused, “Does Shane know that you’re literally the worst person to be in any kind of fake relationship?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Dean asked, frowning. They were all trained to go undercover—he was no better or worse suited than anyone to pretend to be someone's husband—and in this case, it would be even easier, because they didn't have to keep the act up behind closed doors. He had posed as a 8-years-strong meth addict before, and Dean didn't get where Lawrence was coming from. 

“Well dude,” Lawrence said, “You don't exactly  _ do _ romance. When was the last time you even dated?”

“Last month?” Dean answered, “I met—er—Cassidy—yeah, it was Cassidy,” Dean nodded, as if to punctuate his point, “Liked to be called Cass.”

“Sleeping with the same woman three times isn't dating, Dean.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but fell silent once he realized there wasn’t really anything he  _ could _ say, earning him a pointed glance from Lawrence.

“Somehow, this is going to be the most meaningful relationship you’ve had since college,” and of course Lawrence would know—he had been there for all the fiery messes of Dean’s past relationships. And okay, yeah, Dean didn’t get into relationships easily, and fell out of them at mach speed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t  _ pretend _ to be someone’s husband. He’d seen how people were when they were head-over-heels in love—he could be just as nauseating, no problem.

Apparently, Lawrence didn’t agree, “Do you even  _ know _ how to talk to someone without angling towards sex?”

“I’m talking to you,” Dean pointed out, “And I definitely don’t want to have sex with you.”

“Hurtful, but that’s not my point,” Lawrence said, waving a hand in Dean’s face, “You know what my point is.”

Dean just let out a slow sigh, and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What  _ is _ your point?”

“Just—good luck, man.”

Dean sighed and fought the urge to roll his eyes. Given Lawrence's track record, he knew he meant well, but Dean was  _ fine _ . He could get through an easy stint like babysitting a journalist without any major problems. He didn't want to, but the important thing was that he could.

Lawrence laughed and shook his head at Dean's expression, lobbing the now empty paper cup into the bin.

“Gotta get back to that paperwork,” he groaned, standing up, “There's always  _ so much _ . I don't even have any open cases I'm handling right now—but it spawns, anyways.”

Dean laughed, unrepentantly. Not having been in the field for a while meant that he had no paperwork of his own—he was mostly just picking up slack and organizing—mind numbingly repetitive work, which actually helped more than he thought it would with his guilt with returning.

“That's what you get for being a good agent,” Dean teased, sitting up to give Lawrence a mocking salute, “Protecting the country—one case file at a time.”

“You're an asshole,” Lawrence returned laughing, before he paused at the door and looked back, “Welcome back, asshole.”

Dean just grinned until the break room door swung closed, and he slouched back into his chair, letting out a sharp huff. He glared at the file for a long moment, before he pulled it back closer towards him. The photo of the journalist stared back at him from the first page, a slight smile at one corner of his lips, and challenge in his eyes. Dean sighed and closed the file.

At least the guy he'd have to pretend to be married to was attractive. And besides, he would be camped out at a witness protection location—no doubt a small, sleepy town, in suburban bliss. He didn't want to be back in the field, but this barely even _ counted _ as the field. His biggest concern would probably end up being debating what the hell to bring to a cul-de-sac barbecue. It sounded incredibly boring, and  _ safe _ . Right up Dean's recent change in lanes.

It wouldn't be that bad.

It  _ wouldn't _ .


	2. Chapter 2

Chase woke up with the worst crick in his neck since the night he had passed out on a threadbare futon in college, and a mouth that felt like something had crawled into it and died. Even in his discomfort however, sleep weighed heavily on his eyelids, letting him know how  _ lon _ g it had been since he last had a proper night's rest. Chase wanted nothing more than to succumb to it, but his traitorous body rebelled against him. He sat up slowly from his odd tilt on the sofa with a low groan, feeling every joint in his body creak and pop in protest. A file that had been spread open on his lap slid to the floor, but Chase could only stare blearily at it, feeling the beginnings of a headache knocking at his temples.

A twisting pressure began to build in his chest to rival the headache, as Chase realized that he had  _ fallen asleep _ , and didn't know for exactly how long. He had lost time, and he didn't even remember falling asleep, just curling up with the files, now scattered beneath the equally messy coffee table. Chase forced himself to take in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a dizzying moment before he glanced down, relief washing through him when he saw the black watch still on his wrist. It never left his wrist nowadays, but every time he lost track of time, he always expected to look down and see it gone.

Obsessively checking the time was stupid, he knew. He knew that it was just a bandaid on the deep, open wound that was left by whatever trauma he had been through, but it was the only thing he had taken away from the mandated therapy sessions with the FBI’s psychologist. The man had  _ deeply _ stressed that Chase should continue going to therapy while he was away from his real life, but Chase had taken that as noise in the wind, and slapped a now-compulsive coping mechanism over his fucked up brain, and decided to move on. There were more important things to do other than sitting in a overstuffed chair and blinking awkwardly at a therapist, because he didn’t know how to word what he exactly felt through the day. He didn’t  _ feel _ like he was traumatized—he felt more nothing than anything, nowadays, and Chase knew that wasn’t anything  _ good _ , but it didn’t adversely affect his productivity, so he didn’t worry too much about it.

Coming out of the specially-reinforced basement, Chase had thought the thing that would stick with him the most would be the pain, the slurs, and more of the pain. But it hadn’t been. Apparently, the  _ one _ thing his brain had latched onto was the constant uncertainty of how much time had passed. Of how long he had been curled up on his side, breathing slowly through the nausea and pain in his—well—his everything. Of  his circadian rhythm being thrown down the highway, by never knowing whether or not it was day or night. It hadn’t bothered him as much when he was being actively tortured, but once he was out, knowing the exact time had been the only grounding technique that worked.

For some cosmically hilarious reason.

The digital face of the watch read 5:45:03.

The vise around his lungs eased a bit more, and Chase moved on to doing the math in his head of how long he had been out. He had sat down at 1:30:09, and the last time he had checked his watch, it had been 4:21:00.

1 hour, 24 minutes, and 3 seconds.

All of his lost time, accounted for.

Chase sat and stared at his watch for a moment longer, waiting for the rapid staccato of his heart to slow, before he achingly shifted off the couch. He glared at the coffee table, the papers mocking him from a place outside the range of effort he was willing to put in to  try and retrieve them. Besides, he already had all the papers in the file memorized front and back, and trying to squint some sense into them was a lost cause, especially when it still felt like there was sand trapped behind his eyelids. He decided to deal with the files later when he was a bit more awake, and he shuffled out from behind the coffee table, managing to bang his shins into the edges no less than four times. But Chase didn’t have the energy to do anything other than hiss in discomfort and lug his protesting body towards the bathroom.

It was still dark, but Chase didn’t bother turning on a light, knowing that anything other than the faint, ambient glow of the pre-dawn sky would go straight to the throbbing behind his eyes, and sour his  mood further. Besides, he had spent a good portion of his first week in the safe house getting intimately familiar with the layout of the building, and by now, he could hunt a man down in the dark—which had been the point of the exercise in the first place.

Chase made his way to the bathroom, fighting the urge to groan again as he slowly stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning up the water to the hottest it could go. He stood in the spray for a long while, letting the scalding water roll over his skin and coax his muscles into relaxing, until it no longer felt like his bones would snap or warp from his tension. Chase closed his eyes, feeling the ground sway beneath his feet, suddenly light-headed—perhaps from the heat of the shower, exhaustion, or both. Or perhaps his blood sugar was simply low. He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he had taken the time to eat anything, or to do anything outside of obsessing over the facts of the Russo case. His pattern of completely neglecting his health wasn’t  _ new _ , exactly. It was just the way he got whenever he latched onto a tough report, but up until now, he had always had several people checking in with him to make sure that he took a break now and then, even if it was sometimes only his editor calling in to remind him about his deadlines.

Now, somewhere in the quiet, sparsely populated town in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, Maine, Chase was having difficulty remembering how to be a human being.

Still, he wasn’t as pathetic as to faint in his shower without any means of calling for help, so Chase lowered the heat of the water and quickly scrubbed himself clean. The bathroom was filled with steam when he stepped out of the tub, the mirror opaque, but Chase didn’t mind. He wasn’t planning on going out that day either, and he had no one to impress other than his own reflection. It suited him just fine that he wouldn’t be seeing it.

Chase toweled himself dry and shuffled out of the bathroom, then down the hall to the bedroom. The bed was still neatly made from when he had washed the sheets nearly a week ago. He had been happily camping out the couch for some time, and only ever entered the bedroom for a change of clothes, not quite having stooped to the point of just keeping his fresh clothes next to the couch as well. It would probably happen at some point, especially since he didn’t have his best friend to yell at him whenever he strayed too far from living like a normal person, but he wasn’t there—not just yet. He could only hope that he was freed from witness protection before his habits became irreversible, but he didn’t have too much confidence in that point. So he’d have to try his best to  _ behave _ for as long as he could hold out.

Feeling more awake after the shower and fresh clothes, Chase made his way back into the living room, finally turning on a lamp along the way, only so he could see where all the papers had scattered under the coffee table. Chase sighed and stiffly crouched to pull the manilla folder towards him, then swept up the rest of the papers into his arms before he stood and dumped them unceremoniously on the coffee table. They weren’t any more organized than they had  been on the floor, but Chase figured that it was better than just leaving them where they fell.

He snorted, shook his head, and threw himself just as viciously on the lumpy couch, his head hitting the armrest as he swung his legs up. Chase lay where he was sprawled, deeply uncomfortable, and too exhausted to do anything about it. As tired as he was, sleep still chose to evade him, and Chase could only have a grudging respect for how stubborn his new insomnia was—the bastard couldn’t be killed with horse tranquilizers, and Chase wasn’t inclined to try having sleeping pills in the house without any moderation by the other people in his life.

Chase checked his watch, before he threw an arm over his eyes, fighting the urge to scream. Three weeks, two days, nine hours, thirty-four minutes, and twenty seconds into witness protection, and he was ready to throw in the towel and prostrate himself to the Russos, just to get some variety in his life.  _ Anything _ other than another excruciating day of raking through material he had already worked over end-to-end with a fine comb, and stolen snatches of sleep destroying his spine and shoulders.

He’d regret that sentiment later.

But he didn’t know that, and Chase found himself missing even the convoy journeys through blistering Afghani heat, and paratrooping into Bengal during monsoon season. At least then, he didn’t feel like there was something crawling under his skin, making him vibrate in place with nervous energy, and making him despise the four,  _ safe _ walls around him. As insane as it was, Chase was more comfortable with dealing with insurgents in the middle of a government-sanctioned civil war over the tranquility of the suburbs.

He  _ had _ asked to be placed in a city somewhere, perhaps Chicago, or Seattle—somewhere where he could close his eyes for a moment and pretend that the bustle around him was the familiar chaos of New York, but the bureau had decided to place him in the fresh hell that was suburban Maine. Where everything was quiet, pristine, and the bane of his existence.

Chase entertained the thought of going rogue for a moment—of packing up his clothes and money, and driving out of the state to shack up in a motel somewhere and go hunting for clues on the Russo case on his own once more. But he finally sighed and decided that he was being too dramatic. The suburbs, as much as it felt like it, wasn’t going to kill him, but the feds just might if he so much as toed the line of stepping out of witness protection. He’d just have to grit his teeth and bear with it until the tag on him expired, and he could return to his regular life to send the FBI a gift basket that flirted between being generous and offensive. 

Irritated, Chase turned onto his side, curling his arms around his waist as he closed his eyes, drawing his knees towards his chest. Even if he couldn’t fall asleep, he could damn well do his best to try and fake out his body. Maybe he’d even be able to doze.  _ God _ he hoped he could.

It was apparently easier to trick his body into thinking that everything was relatively normal and that he  _ wasn’t _ about to climb up the walls than he had thought it would be. At some point between staring at his watch and letting his eyes drift closed for a moment before unease pried them open again, Chase had actually managed to fall into a light and fitful sleep, consciousness hovering just below awake. It was more like his eyes had just closed for a moment longer than the other times, but Chase couldn’t be entirely sure. The moment  _ could _ have possibly lead into a deeper sleep (was a solid three hours too much to ask for?), but that possibility was snatched away from him by the series of smart raps on the door.

On the  _ front _ door.

Chase didn’t know if he had actually been falling asleep, but he knew for sure that he was ready to kill whoever was knocking. Regardless of whether or not he had actually been sleeping, six in the morning was much to early for any kind of human interaction—at least not if they expected polite company. He had chosen a job where he set his own hours for a reason, and one was primarily so he didn’t have to talk to anyone in the ungodly hours of anytime before ten AM. Obviously, whoever was knocking had missed the memo that Chase Ross Smith did  _ not _ open up the part of his brain that handled conversations until then.

He didn’t know who would be at his door so early in the first place. He had naturally avoided his neighbors by never actually going out, and Chase didn’t think that Russo’s thugs would be as polite as to knock before barging in to kill him. But he couldn’t very well  _ not _ answer the door, so Chase hauled himself off the couch once more, and plodded down the front hall to the heavy, wooden door. He undid the several locks that lined the inside frame of the door and swung it open, squinting in the early morning light.

Chase was immediately crushed in a tight hug, and bundled back into the house, warm laughter filling his ears as he stumbled back blindly. The door slammed closed and only then did Chase feel the person release him, the warmth and weight of their body still lingering on his skin.

“What the fuck?”


	3. Chapter 3

Driving _sucked_.

Especially driving in the northeastern part of America, where the highways were lined with nothing but trees, rocks, and more trees. Nevermind the fact that Dean had only gotten half a day to throw everything he owned into a few carry-ons, he also had to pack an arsenal of surveillance and security equipment into an SUV with much more delicacy than he showed his own belongings. He also had to drive _carefully_ the entire way, because Kim would rip his head from his shoulders if any of the equipment broke along the way, and the paperwork he’d have to fill out would suck ass.

It was seven hours of torture.

Dean figured that it probably wouldn’t have been as bad if he could trade off with someone halfway through the drive, but that would mean subjecting another agent into driving back from Maine, and no one but him had that time. It was a little better that he was driving through the night, since it meant that he didn’t have to sit in traffic, but he was also very aware of the fact that he hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night, and that sleep was much too tempting in a moving vehicle.

So he had pounded a sixer of Redbull before leaving—which was _not_ sitting well with him (he didn’t think energy drinks had agreed with him since college)—and was finally, _finally_ , pulling into the quiet suburbia of Castle Rock, Maine. At six in the goddamn morning. He doubted that his charge would even be awake at that time, given that _he_ definitely wouldn’t have been unless he was needed early in the office for a mission. Sure, he was a morning person, and it didn’t really bother him to be up at six, especially if it was for an important reason, but Dean wasn’t entirely convinced that human brains were meant to be functioning before eight AM.

Apparently, a large part of the town disagreed with him.

There were already a considerable number of people out and about, including an old couple that were, of all things, mowing their goddamned lawn. There weren’t that many cars on the road, but enough people were on the streets near the safehouse, and Dean really hadn’t been planning on having an audience when he first introduced himself to his charge. He didn’t expect the conversation to go exactly smoothly—he doubted that the guy trusted much of anything after what he had been through, and he also doubted that the agency was polite enough to give  him a call to let him know that Dean was dropping in. Dean would have called the guy himself, but he doubted that the agency let the guy have his old cell and number, and if he _did_ have a phone, it would be either a grounded landline or a cell restricted to the few cell towers around the town.

All in all, he’d be lucky if he managed to get through his spiel about being his protection detail without getting punched.

But he’d _somehow_ have to, given that they were supposed to be married, and he was sure that having his so-called husband beating the shit out of him the moment he knocked on the door wasn’t exactly the low-key image the agency stressed for him to go for.

Dean took in a deep breath as he pulled into the driveway of the house, aware of the blatantly curious stares that were directed his way. He got out of the car and pulled back his shoulders, feeling more like he was headed to face a firing squad, instead of one investigative journalist in a frankly stunning house.

Ex-spec ops, Dean’s mind helpfully reminded him, and Dean fought back a groan. Nevermind getting punched, he was lucky if he didn’t get _shot_ for springing this on a recently tortured veteran. Dean knew that the guy was licensed to carry firearms, and that the bureau had pushed it even further to allow him to conceal-carry. He didn’t think that the guy would shoot him in broad daylight, but that didn’t mean that Dean trusted him not to. For all he knew, Dean could be a threat.

He’d also never get up the stairs to the front porch and to the door if he kept stressing over whether or not he was going to get shot. Dean sucked in another steadying breath before he jogged up the steps to the front door and knocked his knuckles against the heavy wood before he could give himself an ulcer about not having a _plan_.

Dean was about to knock on the door again, when he heard latches unlocking, and he drew his hand away, just as the door swung open. Whatever Dean was expecting—despite the photograph of the guy he’d been provided—it wasn’t the delightfully disheveled, absolutely irritated, green-eyed slip of a man, blinking up at him like an angry newborn kitten. But Dean was also intimately familiar with the tension lining the entire frame of the man. In all his previous experiences, it usually lead to the door slamming closed in his face. Which, incidentally, was the last thing he needed in his efforts to convince the neighbors that they were a freshly-minted couple, deeply in love.

So Dean  did the first thing that came to mind. He had seen couples sickeningly in love before. He’d been subjected to every kind of romcom under the sun (although Lawrence would literally swallow a live grenade before he admitted that he’d been the one to subject Dean to that particular torture), and he knew what honeymoon-phase couples looked like. He could only hope that the guy—

 _Military trained, green-beret, Blue Jay tested guy_ —

didn’t flip him over the porch like a cheese omelette.

Dean forced himself to laugh, a laugh that was bright and happy, and sounded real to _his_ ears. He threw his arms around the guy as if they were long-estranged star-crossed lovers meeting after fighting for years to be together. Ok, so maybe Dean had given some thought into the whole “how did we meet” portion of their fake marriage on the long drive up. Dean wasn’t above using his larger bulk and surprise on the guy’s part to herd him back inside the house, until Dean was far enough in to shove the door closed behind him with a foot. Dean finally backed away, holding his hands up in defense, ready for a flying kick to the face.

But all he got was a befuddled glare, and a “What the fuck?”

Which, ok yeah, Dean kind of understood that sentiment. But he was more glad that there weren't any bullet holes in him—yet.

“Sorry about that,” Dean started off, giving the guy an apologetic smile he was only half genuine about, “I didn't want the neighbors gawking.”

“Ok, sure,” the guy said, blinking quickly, “Who the fuck are you?”

Dean grimaced, lowered his hands, and offered a half shrug, “Dean Charter,” he introduced himself, hoping that the guy had been debriefed about him in _any_ way, even if that meant only having been told his name and assignment in passing.

“Charter?” the guy asked, and a thrill of hope passed through Dean when he saw recognition flash across the guy’s face. But the guy’s expression quickly shuttered closed again, and he took a defensive step back, hands clenching at his sides.

“Funny your name’s Charter,” he said, a hint of a drawl in his voice, “Don’t suppose that’d be a coincidence, would it?”

Dean’s brow rose slightly, but he quickly schooled his face, “No, I don’t suppose it is,” he replied, “How much do you know about your situation?”

The guy frowned as he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, clearly ready to bolt, “Just that I got a strange man standin’ in my doorway, and he’s got the same name as I do,” he narrowed his eyes at Dean and bared his teeth, “Don’t think it’d be very smart of you to stick around any longer.”

And well, that was just Dean’s luck, wasn’t it? The recognition had only been for Dean having the same last name as his alias—Ross Charter, if he remembered correctly—and the guy clearly had no idea why. _And_ he was spitting very thinly veiled threats at him. He didn’t really feel all that threatened by the guy several inches shorter and half his mass in a ratty T-shirt and bleach-splattered sweats, but he had to remind himself not to judge this guy by his appearance. A brief scan through his dossier had told him that the level of training the guy had received was probably on par with Dean’s own, and wasn’t _that_ a fun thought.

God, Dean didn’t want to be in fucking Maine. He hadn’t even wanted to be back from leave, but Director Murphy had gotten impatient, as he always did. Still, he would have been fine just sulking in the branch headquarters, picking up slack on paperwork and calling up Cassie every other week for the proverbial romp in the hay they both knew meant absolutely nothing above letting off steam. But instead, he had to talk down a bristling, nervous, special-ops trained, recently tortured man, woefully unprepared.

“It’s not a coincidence they assigned you the same last name as me,” Dean explained carefully as he warily eyed the guy’s movements, “I’m Special Agent Dean Charter, and I’ve been sent as your protection detail,” he offered the guy a small smile, “I was hoping you were briefed about this beforehand, but it doesn’t appear to be so.”

“No kidding,” the guy snorted, and to Dean’s surprise, he sighed and turned his back to Dean, walking further into the house, “Suppose that explains a lot,” he continued, not even bothering to check behind him to see what Dean was doing. Dean shook his head and blinked quickly to brush off his surprise at the guy’s easy acceptance, before he stepped up from the foyer to follow the guy into the kitchen.

“So,” the guy said as he pulled open the fridge door and grabbed an energy drink.

Dean winced, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at the memory of what _those_ had done to him recently. Apparently, the guy didn’t share his reservations as he popped the tab and took a long swig, his throat working in deep swallows as he basically chugged the entire can.

He set it down on the counter and turned towards Dean, narrowing his eyes at him. Dean was a little less tense now, with a table between them, but he still didn’t sign off on the certainty that the guy wasn’t going to lash out and attack him.

“So,” the guy said again, punctuating his word with a rush of breath, “Who are you supposed to be anyways? My cousin or something?”

Right, the same name. The husbands thing.

God, this mission was getting worse for Dean by the second. And no, it wasn’t because he was unprepared to pretend to be someone’s husband, unlike what Lawrence’s amused crowing suggested. It was because apparently, not a single person in the agency had thought it necessary to mention _anything_ about Dean to this guy. What grade-A assholes.

“Uh, no,” Dean said, “Your husband, actually.”

“My husband,” came the guy’s impossibly flat reply.

“Yeah,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes at the guy’s slightly mortified expression, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Hell yeah it’s gonna be a problem,” the guy snapped, “Why the fuck are you my _husband_?”

It was Dean’s turn to bristle, as he fought the urge to deck the guy. He had refused the assignment in the first place, and he was worn thin from the drive up. He honestly hadn’t expected it from the guy, given that he was from the city, but Dean supposed that he also should have taken into account his military background and the whole DADT thing they got going on.

“Is this a homophobia thing?” Dean asked, lip curling into a snarl, “Because let me tell you pal—”

The guy cut him off before he could finish, “No, Jesus, I’m gay,” he said, looking at Dean like he was a particularly disgusting cockroach he had found smeared on his polished wood dining table, “Just don’t see logistically how the _fuck_ you posing as my husband’ll help me in any fuckin’ way.”

Dean forced himself to deflate. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths before he snapped back at the guy. Ok, so the guy was still an asshole, but at least he wasn’t homophobic, and Dean didn’t have to get up and walk out of the house to drive all the way back to New York to dump the file right back into Murphy’s lap. He could deal with asshole.

He would have rather socked the guy in the face under any other circumstance, but he could run a clean mission with an asshole. He’d done it before.

“We don’t exactly look related,” Dean said slowly, “It’s so that people won’t ask questions. It’s less suspicious this way.”

“Right,” the guy drawled, a cut and dry smile that edged on a sneer crossing his face, “Because a queer couple movin’ up to a town where the _church_ is still the most important structure within the nearest hundred miles is so much less suspicious.”

Dean grimaced, able to empathise with the asshole’s trepidation. But Kim had explained their reasoning before he left, and he wasn’t so invested in this mission to come up with an entirely new background for himself from scratch.

“People are less likely to question things that they’re uncomfortable with,” Dean pointed out, “They’ll be too busy hating us and condemning our existence to even question where we’re from, let alone if we belong.”

Dean saw a muscle in the guy’s jaw jump and twitch, before he sighed out, “Sounds like this whole thing is gonna suck some major ass.”

“But it sounds true?” Dean asked.

“Sounds true,” the guy agreed, his irritation dissipating as quickly as it came, “Guess it's better for the ‘good townsfolk’ to be skeeved out that we're gay rather than ‘em asking too many unanswerable questions.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “You’ll play along?” he asked, knowing fully well that the guy didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, but it would be easier to move on to detailing their false identities to him with the guy’s express participation.

The guy scowled, then shrugged, “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said, “You’re already here and I don’t suppose you guys’ll just leave me the hell alone if I don’t.”

Dean made a noise of agreement as he reached into his pocket to pull out a small baggie with two simple rings, one gold and one silver. Kim had told him to hold onto it personally, clearly not trusting the small package not to get lost if left with all the other equipment. He watched the guy eye the baggie like it was rigged to explode, and in a weird way, Dean kind of understood the guy’s trepidation; he was suddenly immensely glad that the rings hadn’t been given to him in a ring box.

“So, Ross,” Dean said as he set down the baggie on the table and slid it over to the guy to take one, “We should—”

“Don’t call me that,” the guy interrupted. He took the silver ring and seemed to weigh it against his palm before he passed the bag and the gold one back to Dean, “M’name’s Chase.”

“I know,” Dean said patiently, slipping the ring onto his finger without a thought, “But your cover’s name is Ross, so I have to call you that.”

“Yeah, no, I _know_ ,” the guy said with a sharp shake of his head, “But—alright, I know—I don’t mean outside where people can hear or anything, just in the house. Can you call me Chase?”

“It’d be easier if I didn’t,” Dean pointed out, but he caught the way the guy’s eyes shadowed at that, and he took in how much more haggard it made him look, even the bags under his eyes seeming to fill in a shade darker. As much of an asshole as the guy seemed to be, the expression made him remember that the guy had been through a traumatic experience, and that all of this had been sprung on him without any form of consent on his part.

Plus, it was still six in the morning.

If anyone had a right to act like an asshole, it was him.

“Right, fine,” the guy said before Dean could concede, pressing his lips together into a thin line, “Nevermind. What were you saying?”

“Uh,” Dean blinked and shook his head, “We should go over our covers’ stories,” he said, “It’s nothing complicated, just something so that if we _are_ asked anything about our relationship, we have the same response,” he paused, then added, “I’m sure you could come up with something better if you wanted to, knowing how to write and all. That’s up to you, Chase.”

Chase blinked, his face blank as he processed what Dean had said. Then, he gave Dean the first real smile since they had first said anything to each other, his entire being positively _glowing_ as he straightened his shoulders and beamed at him.

Dean had to try really hard not to feel like he had just been blessed.


End file.
